


Sollux: survive.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Sex, Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Established Relationship, Flushed Romance, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Problem: the drones induce pailing via chemical stimulus that boosts concupiscent instincts and dampens higher brain functions. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct, and using psionic power is a higher brain function. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct...and controlling your freakish physical strength is a higher brain function.</p><p>Problem: being anywhere near Equius come pailing time is 100% likely to kill you.</p><p>Solution: apply higher brain function ahead of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sollux: survive.

**Author's Note:**

> Roach made this story more interesting than it would have been otherwise! She was the one who got me thinking about the possibility of Sollux being predisposed (and resistant) to submission. Mmmm. :3

You're running through all the calculations in your head, again, because your gastric sac is in knots and you can't stop yourself from thinking about it. Equius is pacing, and he's forgetting to keep control of his ridiculous strength (because his gastric sac is probably in knots, too; you might be about to die, but he might be about to kill his matesprit), and there are little cracks in the concrete under his boots.

"Thtop that," you tell him with a little absent-minded jolt of your psionics to back up the order. "I can't hear mythelf think."

He goes still. "My apologies," he says. He stands there staring at you, shaking with frustration, sweating through his shirt. You can tell he wants to tear something apart, and under the anger you know he's hiding his fear, and it twists you up with pity inside—pity, and your own dose of fury, because you can't protect him from what's coming any more than he can protect you. When the drones come, neither his strength nor your psionics are going to do any good.

Well screw them, because you're going to make it through this. You look at the tracking simulator you wrote, the patterns it's mapping out across the surface from the nearest drone landing site toward your hive. Twenty minutes left at the outside.

"We should get thet up," you say. "It'th nearly time." Equius gives you this pleading look that you know really well by now, and because you pity him so stupidly much you do what he's hoping for: you take charge. "Thtrip," you tell him. "Wait, no."

You lash out with your psionics and do the job for him, shredding his clothes right off. He shudders, groaning, and you'd swear you can read in his body language how much he wants you to make him kneel. Usually you'd love that: your bloodline is wired to serve and obey, and you get as much of a kick out of telling genetic destiny to fuck off as Equius does out of groveling to a slaveblood like you. Tonight you're too tense to appreciate it.

You give him a hard mental shove toward the rack the two of you designed. "Go on, I don't have all night," you say. "Don't make me do all the work here, you thelfish prick."

"I would not dream of it," Equius says, which is a fucking lie. You'd bet he dreams of nothing else. But he stretches out on the rack without needing further input, and even closes the shackles around his own ankles before you get there. He's chewing his lip to grubloaf, the idiot.

"Okay," you say as he lies down, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm going to thet the timer for two hourth."

"Three," he says. "Please."

It's not going to take more than one; you were already being cautious by adding the second hour. Three is overkill. But he looks you in the eyes and he is _terrified_ and you just swallow hard against the sudden tightness in your windchute. "Fine," you say. "Three."

You lock the first shackle around his left wrist and then you stop, as you catch a new sound at the edges of your perception: a high, humming whine, distant and ominous.

" _Hurry_ ," Equius says. You do as you're told. Your hands are shaking as you close the second shackle and program the timer. You were so confident in this plan even just a few days ago.

You're both engineers, so you were ruthlessly practical about preparing for the drones. Problem: the drones induce pailing via chemical stimulus that boosts concupiscent instincts and dampens higher brain functions. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct, and using psionic power is a higher brain function. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct...and controlling your freakish physical strength is a higher brain function.

Problem: being anywhere near Equius come pailing time is 100% likely to kill you.

Solution: apply higher brain function ahead of time.

Thus the rack. You designed it together, built a prototype, tested it. Took notes on where the prototype failed and designed another one. Built a prototype for that. Congratulated yourselves on coming up with this plan two seasons before the drones would start their collection route, so you had time for multiple failures.

The last version you built was finally reinforced well enough that Equius couldn't break it. Now, as you strip out of your own clothes and listen to the rising whine of the pollinating drone, the treacherous half of your brain is sure that you didn't do a good enough job. Equius will be stronger under the influence of the pollen and break free. The timer will malfunction and release him before you can get the stuff out of your systems.

"Sollux," Equius says, gravelly and calm, and you jump. "We have done everything we could," he says. "Don't panic."

"Nobody'th panicking," you snap, toeing off your shoes and kicking your pants off. You're not even convincing yourself, but it's the principle of the thing.

You come over to the edge of the rack and stand there beside him, running your fingers through his hair to soothe yourself, tightening your grip and pulling a little. Usually your bulge would be coming out to say hi by the time you had him in a position like this, but the nerves have you a little on edge. When you glance down—past his six thousand miles of rippling abs, fuck, he needs to stop getting bigger than you—it looks like his bulge is still safely sheathed, too. Just...keep breathing, you tell yourself. Keep breathing and eventually the rest will...happen.

It's hard to tell when the pollen first comes on. You can't smell it, and it definitely isn't thick enough in the air to be visible. Maybe it's getting hot in here? Equius is no help on that determination. He sweats constantly. You maybe feel a little warm, though. A little flushed, in the physical rather than only figurative sense. More...conscious of your body than you usually like to be. You have all this skin, and it has all these nerves.

"I think," you say, really slowly, and you _hate_ sounding, feeling, this uncertain, "I think maybe...."

Equius nods. "Yes," he says.

"I didn't even thay what I wath thinking yet," you point out, prodding him in the stupidly defined pecs with one claw. He knows you by now. And you're both thinking about the same thing, aren't you?

You run your hand down his chest, trying to take it slowly, and he shivers under your touch. You want more. The feel of his skin is right, is good. You can smell him, sweat and machine oil and the strange deep musk of his blood, that chemical cue to your hindbrain to submit, to obey, to follow. You push that feeling away as best you can. You climb on top of him anyway.

"Please," Equius says when you're straddling his hips. He might be tensing up toward you just a little bit.

"Enough," you say. You lean down to kiss him, chipped teeth and chewed bloody lip and all. Maybe it's the taste of his blood, maybe it's the shift in position, but warmth blossoms all over your skin and you're suddenly aware of the rush of your own blood in your aural canals. You aren't touching enough of each other.

You stretch out on top of him and squirm, and your skin hums everywhere you touch. Equius's hands clench and open rhythmically and you can see the cabling flex of tendon in his forearm. You want to bite it. Your bulge is a heavy, swelling weight in its sheath and your seedflap is starting to unfurl, damp and hot. This is happening. You're doing it.

You rock against the swollen sheath of Equius's bulge and he _growls_ , and your entire spinal column turns to jelly. He tosses his head, sweat sheening his brow, his eyes glassy. "Touch me," he says, and you can't get your hands down there fast enough.

It takes barely any pressure along the base of his sheath before his bulge uncoils, swollen and dripping and squeezing your fingers almost uncomfortably tight. You whimper and he growls again and your own bulge snakes out of the sheath in response to the sound. You feel dizzy and off-balance and hot, your seedflap entirely unfurled now, your nook slick and aching.

"More," Equius rumbles, "more," and the rack creaks under you as he strains against it, fuck, fuck, you can't deny him anything right now. You're rubbing yourself up against him like a purrbeast, completely stupid, like the only thing in the world that matters right now is the hot mess between your legs. His bulge untangles from your fingers and slides up between your thighs, twisting and squirming its way into your nook, relentless, powerful.

You're sobbing at the intensity of it because there's too _much_ , he's too big and too forceful and it aches, but you need him to not stop, even as you're taking awful gasping breaths and sure there won't be room inside you for all of it. You've never had him this deep in you, never had _anything_ this deep in you, and you're a shuddery mewling wreck with your claws sunk into him like hanging on will make it easier.

The rack creaks again and Equius's back arches and your hip bones are going to bruise, you can tell. " _Fill me_ ," he snarls, not even stammering over asking you for something so 100d.

"Thorry," you gasp, twisting your hips, biting your tongue before you can lisp out the _sir_ that rose to your lips automatically. Your bulge squirms and you push it down to the juncture of his thighs, so it's no longer trapped between your bodies and can go where it belongs instead and oh _fuck_ , he's dripping wet.

The sound he makes when you get your bulge coiled into his nook is fucking _feral_ , raw and incoherent with threat, and you might be buzzed out of your mind on the pollen by now but your duality thing is alive and well because you want to flee and surrender at the same time. And you can't flee, not if you want to live to see another dusk, so you hold on for the ride.

Equius's bulge ripples inside you, making your genetic material expulsion glands throb, and you fucking hope you're doing the same to him. You fumble for the button on the side of the rack that will expose the bucket well, because you're pretty sure you'll need it soon. "Don't stop," Equius says, "don't stop," and you're shaking as badly as he is.

"Won't thtop," you promise, "couldn't if I tried, fuck—" and you feel the first wave of relief as something inside you _lets go_ , warmth and wetness, and then the spatter of fluid dripping out of you and hitting the bucket.

"Yes," Equius groans under you, "yes," and you pail him harder, desperate, your bulge twisting and lashing inside his nook until oh god you feel his first gland pulse and empty around you, a burst of slick heat and then splashing in the pail.

"More," you plead, because you're not done—nobody ever filled a pail on just one shot each, and besides, your thinkpan is still a jangly horny mess.

Equius bares his teeth and his bulge thrusts up into you again, and you cling to him, and you move. You're dizzy and needy and messed up, melting and strung tight at the same time. You try to stop worrying, to just let it happen since you can't make it stop, and somewhere around the third time he makes you spill everything starts to blur together in your head, a hazy smear of heat and pain and want and slickness. You ride it out until the pollen is out of your system and your body is even more of a pathetic disaster zone than usual, and you're lying slumped on Equius's broad chest and so exhausted you could cry if you had any spare fluid left in the desiccated husk of your pailed-out carcass.

You've slipped out of his nook there at the end, but he was a tighter fit, still wedged about halfway up yours. He's holding really still, taking shallow breaths like he doesn't want to dislodge you by accident.

"Sollux," he says quietly, and you can already hear that he's recovered just from the way he says your name. "Are you all right?"

"Better onthe you get your bulge out of there," you admit, and he stiffens at your language. "It really doethn't fit."

"I'm so sorry," he says, and you know he's trying to be gentle as he withdraws but it still burns.

"No, shut up," you tell him, reaching up to put your hand over his mouth. It takes two tries, but you manage. "I'm okay. Nothing'th broken, jutht a little thore."

"I'm still sorry," he says into your hand. You give up on making him not talk. "I wish I could have avoided harming you entirely."

You chew affectionately on his collarbone. "Becauthe you're a pity-thtruck idiot," you say. You should get up and inspect the pail, make sure you both filled it adequately, but you want to just lie here like a one-troll reenactment of the Massacre of Cortica Five, and for the moment laziness is winning. "I can punish you for it later if that would make you feel better."

"You are so horribly inappropriate," Equius says, and kisses one of your horns, probably because it's the only bit of you he can reach. You play dead on his chest for another minute. He clears his throat. "How...how long did that take?"

"Ehehe. Impatient to get up now?" You lever yourself up enough to squint at the timer. "Get comfortable, it'th only been fifty-three minuteth." Equius groans, and you flop back down on top of him. "Maybe thith can be your punishment. Thententhed to therve ath my napping bench."

Equius makes one of those that-isn't-funny-and-this-isn't-laughter noises, and you hide your smile against his chest. Eventually he says, "May the penitent request a blanket?"

You should say something obnoxious like _II don't know, maybe he 2hould try iit and fiind out_ , but you're tired, and a thermal comfort drape does sound nice. You reach out for one as if it's going to just come when called, and after a minute you manage to get your psionics in order enough to drag the thing over and let it fall on both of you. "There," you say. "A _blanket_ for the fanthy penitent."

"Thank you, sir," Equius says, and it's always hard to tell but you think he might be teasing you back.

You lie there, listening to the beat of your matesprit's bloodpusher, and congratulate yourself on filling a pail together without him killing you even a little bit. Once you feel a little less like your limbs are made of sourfruit-flavored gelatin, you'll get up and drag out the pail so it's ready for the collection drones when they arrive, so they won't kill you either. Then you intend to fall into your recuperacoon and sleep for approximately a week, after which time you and Equius can go back to having normal, not-drugged sex, the kind where nobody stuffs anything up your nook and you can use your psionics to hold him down.

Though honestly? You might decide to keep the rack around. It has potential, you're pretty sure.


End file.
